Close-fitting Pants and the James Mason Complex
by Lone Gunwoman of the Week
Summary: A "Ghost World" story. Seymour's regrets after telling Enid they can't see each other anymore.


Title: Close-fitting Pants and the James Mason Complex  
Author: Rebecca Perlow  
Rating: R for some profanity.  
Summary: A post "Ghost World" romp. Seymour's regrets  
after telling Enid they can't see each other anymore.  
Disclaimer: Enid, Seymour, Joe, Dana, none of them are   
mine. All of them belong to Daniel Clowes and Terry  
Zwigoff.  
  
*******************************************************  
  
I've never liked being alone. I mean, who am I kidding?  
A person doesn't place pathetic ads in the weekly   
personal pages because they enjoy solitude. Or allow an   
unemployed avid collector of vintage taxidermy to room   
with them. Or date a, for all intents and purposes,   
perfectly wonderful woman who completely bores them.  
  
Not that that's anything against Joe and Dana. My   
neuroses isn't their doing. If anything, their   
presence manages to alleviate some of its worst effects,  
at least partially. I almost always feel isolated, but   
being isolated in a group of people is different somehow.   
More tolerable. I don't know, it's complicated.  
  
When I'm with Dana, I'm still alone-- in spirit,   
in absentia, inanimate --but it's easier to pretend I'm   
not. It's a game I've played in numerous relationships   
over the years: you got yourself into this situation,   
swallow your distaste and live with it. But, it's also  
a game that's gotten more and more difficult to play  
recently.  
  
However inappropriate it is-- and it is inappropriate, I   
know that --I never feel alone when I'm with Enid. And   
that in itself adds a whole new set of complications.  
  
'Don't worry, I won't bother you anymore.'  
  
You never bothered me. That's part of the problem. That's   
the *whole* of the problem.  
  
Before I can tell her that, she's already gone. There's   
a tone of finality in the door slamming that I can't   
quite believe. I've seen her almost everyday for   
the better part of three months. I can't quite grasp   
the idea that that would climb to a stand-still.  
  
But that's exactly what I just asked from her. Worse   
still, it really wasn't *me* asking, and she knew it,   
too.  
  
'Someone so young.' Unspoken, the words seemed kind, I  
guess, honest. That should have been my first clue.   
Anything so honest can never be kind. And anything so   
simple can only be patronizing. I fucked up. Bad. Her   
expression afterward is burned into my memory, doomed   
to startle me out of Belasco and Giordano-induced   
meditations for the rest of my hopefully short   
existence.  
  
My sense of loyalty wants to run after her. My sense  
of preservation wants me to let her go. And my well-  
heeled cynicism wants to bludgeon me into an unconscious  
state for indulging in such a cliched analogy of my  
own inner turmoil. At this point, I'm not keen to   
argue. I..*hurt* her. I don't deserve oxygen.  
  
"Honeymoon over?" Joe queries around a mouthful of  
mastigated ham and wheat bread, peering out from his   
rank and cluddered inner sanctum. My roommate, the  
Prince of Tact.  
  
"Go kiss a mongoose."  
  
"More fun than the blond."  
  
I'm tempted to ask him whether he means Enid or the   
mongoose, but I think better of it as he makes his  
retreat, abruptly shutting the door. A somehow less  
effective version of Enid's message, but the sentiment  
is very much the same.  
  
Well fuck you, too. Fuck everybody, I give up.  
  
I hate these stupid pants.  
  
It's not until I'm within the safe, familiar confines  
of my room that I recognize this one inarguable fact  
that I had denied so ferverently just moments before.  
  
'Where'd you get those pants?'  
  
Any effort to lie to her was pointless from the   
moment she uttered the question, a hint of a smirk   
in her voice. The path of her downcast gaze alerting   
me to just how close-fitting these stupid pants were.  
Are. Jesus, I hate these pants.  
  
Lying conspiratorily on the end table is my birthday   
present from Joe: the soundtrack LP for "Lolita."  
Very funny.  
  
I think even the cashier at Masterpiece Video would   
notice the less-than- subtle differences between Enid   
and Sue Lyon. And only a drunk rat on a rainy night  
would mistake me for James Mason. I will admit the   
image of Enid sporting a pair of red, heart-shaped   
spectacles is enough to provoke some pretty extreme   
reactions in me. 99% of it is laughter, the other 1%   
isn't worth commenting on.  
  
Red's a nice color on her. Very nice. On me and most   
everyone else, red would look comical. On her it looks..   
I don't think I've ever seen Dana wear red. She seems   
to favor yellows and blues. Light unobtrusive colors.  
  
The denim lands in a crumpled heap across the table   
knocking the record to the floor. Under other   
circumstances, my heart would spasm at the sound  
of well-aged vinyl colliding with polished plywood.  
Tonight, it barely even registers.  
  
I wonder if Dana's seen "Lolita." I'm afraid if I ask,  
instead of talking about the subtleties of Mason and   
Lyon, she'll begin ruminating on the genius of Irons  
and Swain. Already I can feel the first inklings of   
an Enid-patented stare coming on.  
  
The frustration is nothing new. In my four decades on  
this planet, I've walked in and out of countless   
situations having convinced myself and others that my   
tenure has actually been three times that. I felt like  
a senior citizen at fifteen. I managed to alienate the   
one friend I had in high school by daring to be   
offended when Michael Winner announced his plans to   
remake "The Big Sleep."  
  
'What's your problem, Seymour?' was always one of her  
favorite questions to which I never could seem to   
summon a reply.   
  
Boy, I haven't seen "The Big Sleep" in years. PBS ran  
"Key Largo" a couple weeks ago. Edward G. Robinson's  
best performance after "Scarlet Street." Joe's   
favorite nature program was on, I had to forfeit   
rights to the television for the rest of the week,  
but it was almost worth it.  
  
Bogart was on his third Camel when Enid sauntered in  
and settled into the chair next to me, unannounced and   
not quite Yvonne Craig in the mask I want to forget I   
ever bought.  
  
"Hey Stranger. Long time no see."  
  
"Did you walk up here?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Wearing that?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
"Did anyone see you?"  
  
"Just Joe, and some old lady that was sweeping the   
steps outside."  
  
"Mrs. Thompkins?"  
  
Our landlady is still giving me the fish-eye everytime  
I go out to check the mail.  
  
I was always a bigger fan of Robinson than Bogart, a   
fact you don't want to share with too many Bogart fans.  
Their level of fanaticism rivals even the most ardent  
admirers of the Virgin Mary, Elvis, and "Star Trek."   
A good 3/4 of the collectors showing up at our gatherings   
are furious Bogart fanatics. If you ask any one of   
them if they believe in God, they'll say yes, and his   
name is Bogie.   
  
The sight of Robinson as Johnny Rocco, an exiled   
criminal holding court and hostages in a remote hotel   
during a hurricane is a unique one. Raving to Bogart,   
Bacall, and everybody with no choice but to listen about   
his deportment from the country after spending the better   
part of his life there. An 'undesirable alien.' Unwanted.   
Isolated. A distinction that had always appealed to me,   
and apparently appealed to Enid.  
  
"Go Rocco! You tell those fuckers!" I was tempted to   
blurt the obligatory 'Jesus' but the vision of Gerrold,   
Dave and the rest of the collector losers quivering in   
pools of urine was enough to bring a small smile to my   
face, filled with undeserved pride.  
  
I wonder where I could find the primordial lake of   
indignation that was fortunate enough to sire Enid. I'd   
like to build an altar there. Maybe a temple. Someplace  
to pay homage to this truly unique and intriguing young  
girl and seek atonement for my incredible fuck-up.   
  
I'm sorry, Enid. I wish things could be different.  
  
On the flip side was the cold, indifferent throne of   
the recently cloned multiplex, sometimes watching, more   
often cringing at Dustoff Varnyoff's ode to flora and   
mediocrity. Dana on one side of me, three dozen creatures   
on the other, all reaching for the sundry used kleenex,   
hankerchiefs, cocktail napkins squirelled away in their   
purses, in their pants pockets, in their underwear. All   
the while I kept reciting a familiar incantation to myself   
'You got yourself into this situation, swallow your   
distaste and live with it. This is what you wanted. To   
not be alone.'  
  
This is what I wanted. Hopefully, in time, I'll come to   
believe that.  
  
What's your problem, Seymour?  
  
Me? I don't have a problem.   
  
Let's review: you're forty years old, you're stuck in a  
mind-sucking job that allows you to buy old records and  
not starve to death. You've got a gorgeous, smart,   
delightful, albeit slightly shallow woman cooking you   
dinner, buying you clothes..  
  
..and you'd rather hang out with a teenaged girl, who  
may or may not still be talking to you. You've made a   
lifelong habit of not being able to connect with people   
and torpedoing the few connections you have made. And   
here you are, alone. As usual.  
  
No, I don't have a problem. I don't have a problem in  
the world. 


End file.
